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Clara chewed the suddenly unwelcome lump of cake in her mouth, clenching her hand under the table to prevent herself from reaching out to her friend.
Stella raised her chin but kept her eyes on the already crisp tablecloth she smoothed.
Clara took a cleansing sip of tea, searching for the right words to honor her friend.
Stella spoke first in a quiet voice. “Most days, I’m grateful you converse with me as if we were the same. Other days, like today, it…hurts. It pains me to ignore who I am and what I do. And…I don’t know if I can do it any longer.”
Clara’s brow furrowed; the suffering was clear in her friend’s stark voice.
Stella set about rearranging her skirts.
Increasingly, Clara longed to open the door and peek into Stella’s world. Rather than question her, she took a tiny bite of spiced and fruited tea cake. It was her favorite, but the flavors didn’t register today. Not after the sheen of tears in Stella’s eyes, blinked away.
“I don’t know what to say.” Her thoughts whirred from Stella’s hurt to her own difficult feelings. “I have my own reasons for avoiding certain topics, and they may not be what you think.”
“Is that so?” Stella’s eyebrow raised in a perfect blond wing, and her petite shoulders squared. “I am a prostitute. You are an aristocrat.” Her small hand gestured gracefully. “If anyone here knew that, it would sully your reputation. Only by accident of circumstance did we meet without your knowing who I was. ”
Both women recalled that day a few years ago at Patton & Co. Apothecary. Clara frequented the respected shop for Aunt Violet’s medicine, and she overheard Stella consulting with skilled Mr. Patton about her sister’s health.
Clara hadn’t wanted to reveal her eavesdropping, but Stella described symptoms that sounded very familiar. She approached her tentatively, finding her receptive to exchanging ideas.
Over the coming months, whenever Clara approached the shop’s black-enameled façade, she peered through the gold lettering on the plate glass, delighted if she found Stella browsing through the tinted glass bottles, tins, and crocks.
It was a relief conversing with someone close in age, ostensibly of similar class, who knew first-hand what it was to be the caretaker of a beloved—and dying—relative.
All she’d known was that Stella was unmarried, and cared for her sister, Mary. The first sign of something amiss occurred when she invited Stella to call on her. She declined, and Clara didn’t see her at Mr. Patton’s for some time.
A few months later, Stella reappeared, and invited Clara to the newly opened Miss Smith’s Tearoom. After a most pleasant time together, Sella informed her almost nonchalantly that they couldn’t meet again.
“I’m not sure what offense I have caused,” Clara replied. “Whatever it may have been, it wasn’t my intention.”
“No, Lady Clara, you’ve not caused offense. On the contrary, your acquaintance has been an honor.”
“Pray enlighten me, then. Why won’t we meet again?”
Stella leaned forward to ensure privacy, and made her announcement in a calm voice, consistent with discussing the weather. “I am a prostitute.”
Then she sat back with a detached air.
Clara blinked, staring at Stella before searching in vain for signs that Stella was attempting an odd jest.
Eyes downcast, she pieced together whether it could be true.
She was still thinking when she heard the rustling of fabric. “Please, stay,” she entreated gently when Stella rose to depart.
Stella looked apprehensive—but she remained.
Clara had tried not to appear too assessing as she considered her in the new light. Not believing that she could hide her feelings, she lowered her lids again.
Any lady of her ilk would, should react with repulsion and rejection. In truth, shewashorrified—yet that didn’t surpass her regard for Stella.
She was also curious. Hadn’t she sensed and admired Stella’s unusual independence? She had wondered why she was unmarried, like herself.
Yet becoming a fallen woman…that was not the same as living unmarried. To have taken such a decision, Stella must have been in dire circumstances.
With that realization, her eyes shone with sympathy.
“No,” Stella said quietly but firmly. “Do not pity me.”
